


Killing My Time

by femoral



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Rough Sex, cain is kind of an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 01:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15830820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femoral/pseuds/femoral
Summary: “Mine,” Cain says into the darkness, cigarette smoke tumbling from his mouth. Abel kisses his chest meekly in response.“Yours,” he whispers back. And he tries not to cry, because he knows Cain doesn’t really mean it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully at some point this will become a bit of a series. I have a lot of ideas, but not a lot of motivation. Whoops. 
> 
> Inspired by the song Killing My Time by G Flip. 
> 
> [Listen here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rg6MvLWghIc]

Abel’s not sure how much of their fighting he can take. He supposes he should have known, should have trusted his gut instinct on his first meeting with Cain that they were polar opposites. He should have switched Fighters, should have turned and run with his tail tucked between his legs. He flexes his fingers on the bathroom sink, knuckles whitening, fingers slipping some with sweat. He splashes some water on his face and towels it dry, looking at his reflection with contempt – he looks tired, and he supposes he is. Greying circles around both eyes, exhaustion settling in the sockets highlighting the roadmap of purplish capillaries there. He worries his lip between his teeth, brings an unsteady hand up to his mouth. Thumbs over the scar there, like Cain always does. Like Cain had done on their first night together, making him wince and gasp and tears spring to his eyes because it was still fresh then. 

He leaves the bathroom, looks at their mattresses on the floor with the blankets askew and the pillows thrown against the desk. Cain’s already left for the day, off to some other dogfight that Abel perhaps expressed too much concern for. He looks at the floor for a moment, and Cain’s words play on repeat in his head – “Quit your fucking bitching, Abel. I don’t have to fuckin’ report to you every time I leave the goddamn room. You don’t fuckin’ own me, for fuck’s sake.” Too much swearing, as usual. Abel’s sure he heard some choice words spat at him in Russian, too, as Cain slipped into his clothes and left.  
He supposes Cain isn’t wrong. Cain isn’t his. He starts to tidy their room some as he ponders, expression dark and gloomy and tears bristling painfully at his eyes. He’d only wanted Cain to know that he worries for him, cares for him, hates the way he leaves early in the morning and comes home late at night. Hates the sound of him snorting down a blood clot from his nose to spit it into the sink. Hates the way he flinches when Abel’s hands flutter down his chest, towards the bandage around his hips.  
But Cain doesn’t like that pansy shit, says it’s for pussies and women who don’t know how to control their feelings. It hurts. It hurts knowing that when Cain has him pressed down into the mattresses, hands roving across his body as he fucks into him, makes him mewl and moan, probably doesn’t mean it when he growls, “You’re mine,” into Abel’s ear as he comes inside him. It hurts knowing that Cain’s probably just using him to kill time.

A tear falls down his cheek, hot and wet. He brushes it away angrily as he puts on his uniform, and leaves their room that smells all too much of cigarettes and sex and Cain to busy himself in the lab for the day. 

He decides he’ll stay late, even if he has nothing that requires him to do so. A taste of Cain’s own medicine, perhaps. 

________________________________

It’s nearly midnight when he finally decides to go back to their bunk. He’d finished his work a few hours ago but had spent the rest of his time tapping away at his keys, fingers making soft noise across the glass of the screens every now and then, researching history and gorging himself on as much information about the Colterons as possible. 

Which, if he’s honest, isn’t much more than a few haphazard pages of notes and observations, poorly written histories jotted down by higher-ups post-battle. 

 

He’s making his way down the hallway, reaching their door and preparing to punch in his code to let himself in, when it whirs open. The stench of cigarette smoke pours out and Abel has to fight from keeping his nose wrinkling when he looks up at Cain. Cain, face stern, jaw squared, nostrils flaring with each breath. Abel tries not to recoil. 

“Hi –“ he tries to start, but he’s abruptly cut off, Cain’s hand grabbing him by the collar of his uniform and dragging him into the room. The door slides shut behind them with a gentle noise and Abel tries to swallow down the feeling of being trapped, his heart rabbiting hard against his ribs and his hands starting to shake. Perhaps staying late was a bad idea. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” Cain demands, and he’s not shouting as Abel expected, but his voice is so low, thunderous that Abel almost wished that he was. 

“I… I had to stay late at work,” he answers, holding up his data pad like it’s going to save him, shield him. 

“Bullshit.” Cain says it on a snarl, his brows furrowing together as he turns his face away from Abel slightly, looking down the angular slope of his nose. Abel can see the muscle in his jaw flex as he grits his teeth. “Who were you with?”  
Abel’s brow furrows and he holds his data pad to his chest with both hands, knowing he looks too defensive, like he’s lying, but he needs to hold himself, needs to try and steady the way his heart definitely seems to be trying to leap right out of his chest. “No one!” His voice cracks on it, chokes around the words, and Cain steps closer to him with an eyebrow cocked. _Shit_. “I had to stay late, Keeler wants me to work more on the paperwork side of things and – “ 

Cain silences him with a kiss, hands on either side of Abel’s face. It’s biting, too rough, and Abel’s eyes stay open with the shock of it, watery and too close to Cain’s face to focus. Cain kisses him like he’s trying to swallow him whole, suffocating and oppressive, teeth clacking. It’s when Abel’s eyes flutter closed and he begins to relax into it that Cain pulls back, hands sliding down to Abel’s lapels to keep him close, pull him up onto his toes so they’re nearly eye to eye.  
“You’re mine, princess.” Cain tries to keep the jealousy out of his voice, tries to ignore the fucked up way heat pools in his gut with the fear in Abel’s eyes, with his trembling lip, the tears beginning to bead in his lashes. So pretty when he’s scared. “Don’t fuckin’ forget that, yeah?” 

Abel nods up at him, quick and nervous and kind of hard in his trousers. Cain doesn’t say it with any kind of affection, no breathy reverence like when they’re fucking. “Okay,” he whispers, and it comes out hoarse with how tight his throat is, how dry his mouth is.  
Cain’s upper lip twitches before he leans in again, staking his claim on Abel with another wet, bruising kiss. Abel’s data pad hits the floor with a clatter that makes him flinch, but Cain doesn’t seem to notice. He pulls Abel up, holds his legs around his hips, kneading into his ass through his trousers. Walks them to the door, presses Abel up into it, grinding into him the way Abel likes it, the way that makes Abel start to whine into their kiss, hands balling into Cain’s hair. 

He pulls down Abel’s trousers enough to expose his ass after fumbling with his belt buckle as he bites and sucks at the soft skin behind Abel’s ear lobe, makes him cry out, makes his hips stutter against the door towards him. 

Abel’s starting to unravel, rosy flushed heat climbing up his chest to the crests of his cheeks, the tips of his ears. He’s whining as Cain bites and kisses at him, sucks mottled hickeys into the column of his throat, and then there’s two fingers in his mouth and, “Suck,” growled low into his ear. He does as he’s told, and he does it with devotion, getting Cain’s fingers as wet as he can, as messy as he can, because he loves the way it makes Cain huff into his ear, grunt out a, “Fuck.”  
Then the fingers are gone and he feels them, cold and sticky, making their way to the space behind his balls. Cain pushes them both in at once, mouth twisting into a smirk at the way Abel jolts, his eyes popping open wide before he moans breathily, relaxes into it. He fingers him for a while like that, watching him, the way his little tongue darts out every now and then to wet his lower lip, how his jugular seems to burst out of his neck when he moans Cain’s name. 

“Cain, please, please,” Abel begs, punctuating every syllable with a twitch of his hips, a roll of his head against the door.  
“What, princess? What do you want?” Cain purrs, teasing and sultry, nipping at the shell of Abel’s ear.  
“Fuck me,” Abel gasps as Cain scissors his fingers. “I want you to fuck me.”

That smirk is still on Cain’s lips as he pulls his finger out and releases Abel’s legs, spins him around to press his chest up against the door. “Such a little slut for me.” Abel can hear the jingle of his belt buckle and the _zrrrt!_ of his zipper as he undoes his fly.  
He spits on his hand and smears it down his cock, gathers more saliva and spits straight down the cleft of Abel’s ass. It makes him twitch, breathing and begging against the door now, hands up near his face as he braces himself, arching his back for Cain. Cain kicks his legs apart roughly and sheaths himself inside of Abel in one fell swoop, down to the hilt. 

Abel spasms and moans, wants to ask Cain to wait but he’s already fucking him, rough and unforgiving, hips snapping into his ass hard enough for the smacking sound of it to fill their small room. Cain’s grunting, swearing in Russian, pulling at Abel’s hair and reaching around to tug at his cock. Abel thinks he might be shouting, he’s not sure, it feels too good.  
“Cain, ah! Cain, Cain, _fuck!_ Cain! I’m coming, I’m coming,” he sobs, eyes falling shut as Cain’s hand makes its way to his throat, teasing at choking him in a way that shouldn’t make Abel’s orgasm punch him in the guts but it does anyway. He comes with a shout that sounds a lot like Cain’s name, he’s not sure, because Cain doesn’t slow down, doesn’t milk it out of him like he usually does, and his knees start to wobble with overstimulation.  
Cain hunches over him then, an arm around his waist to keep him up, the other one back in his hair to stretch out his neck so he can spit filth against it. “You’re mine,” he says again, and this time it’s got urgency behind it. “Mine, mine, mine,” he says it on every thrust, every snap of his hips, says it around the skin of Abel’s shoulder when he bites into it as he comes, pouring himself into Abel with his body shuddering, toes curling on the floor. 

They stay there like that for a while, Cain supporting Abel while he slumps against the door, until their hearts stop pounding and they get their breath back. Cain pulls out, smirks when Abel winces some, pleased to step back and see his come dribble down the inside of Abel’s thigh and into the clothing still left around his knees. 

Abel runs to the bathroom, blushing violently, as usual, staring at himself in the mirror while he wipes the evidence of Cain from his ass, washes the evidence of himself from his belly. He hears the roll and flick of Cain’s lighter in the room, the flop of him hitting the mattress. 

When he surfaces, Cain is laying down on both of their pillows, like always, haven taken off his clothes. He’s got that stupid look on his face, those half-lidded eyes that just lure Abel closer, into bed, into the crook of his body like always. He curls up next to Cain, not really looking up at him, more at the rise and fall of his breath as he smokes, the vague pulse of his bare chest as his heart beats. Cain’s hand falls to his waist, grips him for a second before it relaxes. He takes another drag of his cigarette, lips parting wetly when he draws in the smoke. 

He exhales as Abel’s eyes slide shut. 

“Mine,” Cain says into the darkness, cigarette smoke tumbling from his mouth. Abel kisses his chest meekly in response. 

“Yours,” he whispers back. And he tries not to cry, because he knows Cain doesn’t really mean it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fuckin’ Abel,” he says around the mouthful, crumbs flying onto the rest of his ration tray. He feels Deimos’ cool gaze on his profile, sees the light shift on his silky hair as he turns to look at Cain, a question hidden in the raise of his eyebrow and the purse of his lips. It’s infuriating. 
> 
> “Blyat,” Cain swears, and he decides he’s done with his lunch. He gets up quickly, leaving his tray on the table for Deimos to clean up. He throws the rest of his bread down and leaves. 
> 
> He needs to hit something. Or smoke ten thousand cigarettes. Or both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't help myself aaaaa. 
> 
> I haven't properly sat down and written anything since about mid-2014 so sorry for garbage :~)

“You need to keep a better eye on my girlfriend. You’re slipping.” 

Cain’s staring down at Deimos, talking around a cigarette. He’s got one hand on his hips and the other on the wall beside Deimos’ head, fencing him in as he mutters, ash falling from his smoke to land on Deimos’ perfectly polished boot. 

Deimos doesn’t recoil under his scrutiny, not like Abel does. He just stares up at him, ever silent, eyes sleepy and lidded like he’s bored. He nods at Cain, eyes flitting down to his mouth briefly, almost imperceptible, before regaining their rigid eye contact. 

“Where was he yesterday?” Cain demands, his voice not rising in octaves but now with something dangerous humming beneath it, nestled in the bulk of his chest. “He came back to our dorm at midnight. Fuckin’ _midnight_.” 

Deimos rises to the balls of his feet and cups a hand gently around Cain’s ear. “Last I saw, he was at his post,” he rasps. “Alone.” 

“Did you see him leave? What time did he leave?” Cain continues, trying to keep the frantic edge out of his voice. His hand comes up quick to shove Deimos’ wrist away from his ear, out of his space. Little mouse is getting too confident, he notes. 

Deimos shakes his head and shrugs, nonchalant. He didn’t see Abel leave, no, but he knows there was no one else with him. Perhaps he could let Cain think otherwise. Perhaps he could let Cain go wild with thoughts of supposed infidelity (are he and Abel even a thing? Deimos doesn’t want to know). And then, perhaps, he could let Cain come running to him, into his arms, where Deimos can litter him with kisses and bites and the love he deserves. 

“Tch,” Cain grunts, lip quirking. “Fuckin’ useless. Don’t let it happen again.” 

He moves to leave and Deimos’ hands fist into the fabric of his shirt, up close to where it covers his throat, trying to hold him near. He’s still on his toes, calves trembling, and his face comes closer to Cain’s with lips soft and parted, searching for something he already knows won’t be found.

Cain barks out a laugh, eyes bugging, and shoves him against the wall hard enough that it cracks into the back of his skull with a thud. “Hands to yourself, _myshonok_.” 

And then he’s gone, stalking down the hallway, leaving Deimos dazed in the corridor, trying to ignore the headache beginning to blossom behind his eyes and the lump in his throat. 

__________________________

Cain’s trying not to think about the way he fucked Abel last night. He’s trying not to think about the way jealousy, nervousness (definitely not panic) was thundering in his chest as the hours rolled by on the bright digital clock-face in their bedroom. 

But he couldn’t shake it. He couldn’t shake the fear that, for whatever reason, Abel had chosen somebody else. That fucking Praxis is keen on him, that’s for sure, and Abel doesn’t seem to mind him either. Cain grunts and rips off a chunk of his nearly stale bread, foot tapping with agitation beneath the cafeteria table. He’s thankful Deimos doesn’t acknowledge the way his leg is bouncing. 

He stuffs the bread into his cheek and chews violently, not caring to wipe the crumbs away from the corner of his mouth. He knows, somewhere deep inside, that Abel probably was just working late. He’s a fuckin’ nerd, Cain thinks, almost verging on a kiss-ass, always working himself to the bone. 

Cain doesn’t get it. 

He also can’t understand why he can’t get the thought of Abel begging for someone else’s cock out of his mind, can’t understand quite why it bothers him so much. With his other Navigators it was reason to be petulant, like a child who won’t share his toys with his siblings. This, though, this is different. Abel is different. The thought of Abel’s rejection and infidelity stirs something painful in the back of his mind, something dark and looming that makes his heart skip a beat before it begins to ache.

He tries not to think about how it was something primal that drove him to fuck Abel, like he needed to stake a claim, mark his territory. He looks at Abel across the cafeteria, and he’s laughing with Ethos, probably about some stupid Navigator shit. He looks at the way Abel’s hand hovers about the collar of his shirt, apparently mindful not to let the dark bruises Cain put there show through. The bruises Cain put there because don’t touch my fucking stuff. 

Abel seems to feel the burn of his gaze and looks over, notices where Cain is staring, and a flush settles delicately over his cheeks and he hides a small smile behind his mouth. 

His nostril twitches up in a sneer and he stuffs more bread into his mouth, ignoring the way his heart rate climbs a few notches. 

“Fuckin’ Abel,” he says around the mouthful, crumbs flying onto the rest of his ration tray. He feels Deimos’ cool gaze on his profile, sees the light shift on his silky hair as he turns to look at Cain, a question hidden in the raise of his eyebrow and the purse of his lips. It’s infuriating. 

“ _Blyat_ ,” Cain swears, and he decides he’s done with his lunch. He gets up quickly, leaving his tray on the table for Deimos to clean up. He throws the rest of his bread down and leaves. 

He needs to hit something. Or smoke ten thousand cigarettes. Or both. 

__________________________

He trains in the combat simulator for two hours, until his body is weak and wet with sweat. His muscles ache, his throat is raw with yelling, because the fucking machine never fucking works properly. Cain knows how to fight, it’s the machine that’s making the mistakes here. He’s sure of it. 

He had wanted to beat the shit out of some other fighters in one of the storage bays, like they had been doing of late, but Encke had to ruin the fun. Had to chide them for their ‘alpha dog’ bullshit. He rolls his eyes as he rips off his helmet, pulling himself out of the virtual reality of punching and choking and kicking. 

His hair is matted to his scalp with sweat, and he’s pretty sure he stinks as he peels off his gear and lights a cigarette. He’s not supposed to smoke in here, but that’s never really stopped Cain. 

He leaves without shutting it down properly, because who gives a shit, his head is dark and stormy and his mood is black. He smokes all the way to the showers, where he’s in and out in about thirty seconds because there’s people fucking in there (there’s always people fucking in there) and Cain is too frustrated with his failures in the simulator to bother watching. He doesn’t like to shower in their shared bathroom, not when he’s in a shitty mood, because the whole fucking cubicle smells like Abel and his stupid orchid-scented body wash. What the fuck is an orchid anyway?

He heads back to their room, almost surprised (and pleased, but not really) when he finds Abel there, sitting with his back against the wall on their haphazard futon, working away on his computer. He looks up at Cain with those big stupid eyes (Cain thinks he’s heard the phrase ‘puppy-dog’, but he doesn’t really understand it – the German Shepherds in New Volga aren’t all that sweet), a tentative smile on his mouth. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Cain grunts back, throwing his things down. He still has his towel around his neck and he’s wearing the same dirty clothes from this morning. He scrubs the towel through his hair one last time before hanging it in the bathroom to dry, Abel watching him quietly. He seems to have detected Cain's bad mood, thankfully.

He flops down next to Abel, ignoring the way he feels immediately at ease as he lights up a cigarette, blowing the smoke away from Abel’s face on the exhale. It’s about as polite as Cain gets, Abel knows, and his smile grows a little with appreciation before he turns back to his laptop.  
Cain watches him from the corners of his eyes, his head against the wall as he smokes lazily, flicking his ash into a mug he uses as a makeshift ash tray. Abel hates it. 

“Must be a big assignment if you didn’t finish it after yesterday.” He says it casually, eyes turning to the ceiling rather than Abel’s scrunching face as he takes another lazy drag. “Maybe you were doing somethin’ else.” 

“Cain.” 

“What?” He bites back, turning to look at Abel fully now. He’s got those wide eyes that bore down into Abel’s whenever they argue, the ones that are kind of scary but kind of hot, thrumming with passion and something else Abel can’t quite put his finger on. 

“I don’t want to fight,” Abel sighs. He shuts down his computer with a defeated little sound because he instantly regrets not having something to focus on. He chews his lip and picks at the dry skin around his nail beds instead. 

“And why would we fight, princess?”

Abel looks at him, almost exasperated. “Because you think that I’m lying to you? I had to work late, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you always leave so early in the mornings and I never get to see you and you already don’t seem to like talking to me anyway and, and…” 

He stops himself because he’s getting upset, his hands curling into little fists and the flesh of his chin wrinkling with the threat of tears. 

Cain’s quiet, for once, just looking at him and smoking and his face is unreadable. How is he so damn good at putting up walls like that? 

Admittedly, the emotion in Abel’s little outburst puts him at ease, somewhat. He knows in his heart of hearts that Abel couldn’t lie to him, even if he tried to. He knows the taste of Abel’s mouth, the pull of his body, the way he whines when he needs to come that no one else would touch him without Cain knowing, even if Deimos is a stupid shit who can’t do a single thing right. He would know if someone else touched his things. 

He puts his smoke out in the mug and in the same movement reaches to Abel’s face, cupping his cheek and thumbing over the scar on his mouth with something almost akin to tenderness.  
Abel closes his eyes, lashes quivering, because he’s still trying not to cry and this whole thing with Cain is getting frustrating. He’s scared of telling Cain how he feels, scared of the way it feels like Cain could leave him so effortlessly, like he hasn’t even been good enough to be a registered blip in the span of his life. 

“’M not so good at talkin’, princess,” Cain mutters quietly, and it’s like he’s trying to avoid upsetting Abel further. 

It would almost be nice if it weren’t something Abel already knew.

Abel’s hand comes up to hold Cain’s wrist loosely, his dark eyes opening to look at him, searching. For what, he’s not quite sure. Maybe for evidence that Cain is human, because sometimes it doesn’t really feel like it. 

Cain leans close and kisses him, the way he likes when he’s upset. It lacks its usual urgency but there’s still the dominant buzz of Cain in the hand at the nape of his neck, pulling at the fine hairs, making Abel gasp some and open his mouth so that Cain can fuck his tongue inside. 

And they don’t talk about it again, not here, not when Cain lays Abel down into the mattresses all soft, strangely delicate, unbuttoning his clothes and kissing the flesh he exposes. He runs the flat of his tongue over Abel’s left nipple, making him shudder and whine and his hands come up to tug at his still-wet hair. 

He kisses down, down, pulls some at the fine, downy hair on Abel’s belly with his teeth, just because he likes the way it makes him jolt. 

Pulls off Abel’s pants, throws his underwear somewhere over his shoulder. He bites at the sinewy stretch of Abel’s hips, then down into the soft meat of his thigh. It makes him moan breathily overhead, his hands flexing either side of Cain’s head. 

Cain sucks on one of his fingers and presses it into Abel as he takes his cock into his mouth, sucking him down deep. Abel bucks and cries, one hand leaving Cain’s head so that he can throw his arm across his face, hips undulating weakly. 

This is what Cain is good at. Plucking at Abel’s strings to make him cry out and sing to the galaxies, making him beg and plead and sob. Cain’s not good at thinking, not good at worrying, not good at talking. He thinks he vaguely remembers someone calling him an ‘emotionally stunted asshole’, but he never took it to heart. 

Right here, right now, he doesn’t need to think about the stresses of his day, about the plaguing thoughts of Abel letting someone else do this to him. He knows here, right here, with Abel’s dick down his throat and his fingers inside him, that no one else would be enough for his princess. 

Hungry slut, he thinks, rubbing at the soft skin behind Abel’s balls with his thumb just because he knows he likes it. 

Cain brings him off like that, two fingers pumping slow and steady until Abel’s begging for more. Swallowing his cock with vigour, holding his hips steady so that he can crook his fingers and find that place that makes Abel gasp and come, and come, and come. Cain drinks it down like a dying man, though he’d never admit it. 

Cain gets himself off over Abel’s belly, jerking himself quick and hard and rough until he’s painting thick translucent stripes over the white of Abel’s torso. 

And as he comes down, as Abel leaves the mattresses to clean himself up with a blush tickling all the way across the bridge of his nose, Cain curses himself for getting that little bit closer to his stupid fucking Navigator.


End file.
